Claws
by PenNameSmith
Summary: Slow day at the house. Bolt marathon on TV. Unsubtle thoughts on the meaning of life.


There was a strange, unique, but decidedly satisfactory sort of feeling to be had from sleeping in. Not a lot of other activities, after all, could make an unconstructive waste of time feel like an accomplishment.

To be fair, this was not a normal activity for Bolt, though it could have been had he wanted it to be. There was a somewhat un-doggish atmosphere to it; sleep at a championship level seemed a specialty that was best left respectfully ceded to the cats of the world.

Their prerogative as compensation for a lack of proper respect, perhaps.

Nevertheless, the sun was high in the sky already and the dog was only just now rousing himself from dreams that were unusually colorful for one of his species. Summer, it seemed, was just a naturally sleepy time of year.

Bleary-eyed, Bolt hauled himself up from the discarded pillow he'd been using as a bed, stumbled across the floor of Penny's bedroom, bonked his head on the door once or twice before locating the exit proper, and strolled sleepily into the hallway.

He could tell, already, that there was a distinct lack of a human presence in the house. Funny thing about summer was that it meant everyday was a tossup as to whether Penny would be home all of the time or none of the time, with today clearly being a case of the latter. Perhaps his late morning had necessitated other amusements.

Bolt didn't mind when she was gone, not these days, since he could be guaranteed that she'd always come back on her own sooner or later. After having spent his entire life previous in the role of protector – even if it was only perceived – that was a liberating, almost magical concept.

At the same time, though, it made him feel just a little bit uncomfortable in a way he couldn't quite pinpoint.

Presently, however, that wasn't really something Bolt was concerning himself with. At the moment, there were more important things to worry about than that.

Specifically, there were explosions coming from the living room.

Trotting downstairs with all the demure of a blasé cannoneer, it occurred to Bolt that the explosions were probably what had woken him up in the first place, though they really shouldn't have. He'd been living with Rhino and the hamster's Magic Box addiction for long enough that none of it should have surprised him.

Then again, there was nothing a proper alarm clock could do that couldn't be matched and topped by high-budget special effects, especially with the volume turned all the way up.

Bolt rounded the corner, and sure enough, there was the absurdly excitable hamster, perched atop the sofa cushions and jumping up and down from within the confines of his plastic ball. He punched the air gleefully every time a particularly noisy sound of violence emanated from the television in front of him.

To Bolt's surprise, Mittens was there as well, sitting comfortably next to Rhino and wearing an expression of unparalleled amusement.

Bolt was so caught off guard by the sight of the characteristically cynical cat honestly enjoying the same sort of mindless entertainment as Rhino that it took him an extra moment to realize exactly what it was that they were watching.

Mittens noticed him as he wandered haphazardly into the room.

"Took you long enough," she said. "I thought about waking you up for this, but you were konked out like a brick, and I thought, y'know, he's seen it all before, more or less, so why bother?"

"You're watching _my_ show," Bolt said, staring at the TV in disbelief. Onscreen, he watched himself busily engaged in fighting a gigantic robot pterodactyl on top of a skyscraper.

"Summer marathon," Mittens replied, with a cheerful smirk. "The good stuff, too, with you in it. None of that new junk with what's-her-face and the aliens. We've been watching for three hours already. This show is _brilliant_, Bolt. Why didn't you ever say?"

Bolt jumped up on top of the sofa himself, feeling more than a bit confused at what he still felt was unusual behavior for his friend. He peered suspiciously at her.

On the other edge of the sofa, Rhino, rabidly engrossed in the show, completely failed to pay any sort of attention to either of them.

"Are you feeling alright?" Bolt asked. "The heat's got you all confuddled, hasn't it? It does that, you know."

Mittens ignored his anxious expression. "Ah, come on. Can't I enjoy some good entertainment every now and then? Especially with Penny and her mother gone for the day. It's not like we've got anything better to do right now."

Bolt sat down, still wary. "You know," he said, still not quite managing to fathom the situation, "if it hadn't been for this show, I never would have dragged you along with me in the first place."

"You mean," Mittens replied smoothly, "if it hadn't been for this show, I never would have met you, and I'd still be homeless in New York with nothing to keep me from starving to death but a tenuous ability to bluff pigeons." She made a face. "Nah, I'll take things the way they are, thanks."

Bolt harrumphed, defeated, and settled down to watch the action. It was more than a little surreal, but a genuine understanding that what was going on in the TV was fake helped things a little bit.

"Besides," Mittens continued, "I happen to find this show genuinely entertaining anyway. You make a very . . . _virile _hero, Bolt."

There was a pregnant pause. Bolt's somewhat limited vocabulary kept it from being quite as awkward as it could have been.

Onscreen, TV-Bolt superbarked the robot into a visually impressive shower of CGI scrap metal, which tumbled down from the skyscraper in gratuitous slow motion.

Rhino cheered, ecstatically. Mittens flicked her tail in what probably constituted a relaxed, feline round of applause.

On the couch, Bolt contemplated the scene and begrudgingly admitted that there was a certain thrill to it, especially from this side of the sofa, where all he had to do was sit comfortably and watch the action unfold, assured of a happy ending. But at the same time, there was that uncomfortable feeling from earlier, again.

The show cut to commercial, and Bolt attempted to voice his discomfort.

"Mittens," he started, haltingly, trying to think of the correct way to phrase things. "Do you ever wonder if maybe I can't ever be a regular dog? Not completely, I mean."

She glanced across at him, with a mild look of concern. "You're doing fine from where I'm standing, wags," she said. "You smell. You've got dirt in your fur. You're unnaturally friendly. I don't see how you're _not_ normal."

"I mean how I think," Bolt replied, fidgeting nervously. "I've been a protector my entire life. I know that wasn't real, but that's not something you can just let go of, you know?"

"What, you can't protect Penny anymore?"

"Well, sure, I can, I do . . ." More fidgeting. "But she doesn't need it. Not really, I mean. It's not the same like that."

The commercials ended. TV-Bolt returned, along with all accompanying explosions. Rhino, who'd relaxed a bit during the break, immediately returned to hopping up and down with excitement.

"You know what I think?" Mittens said. "I think you should relax and watch some TV with me. It's great for unwinding, especially when it mainly consists of yourself laying the righteous smackdown on some bad guys. I mean, that's gotta be fun to watch, right?"

"You're not listening to me, Mittens!" Bolt protested. "I need to protect something. I think not having that is making me go a little crazy."

"Bolt, quiet down for a bit, will you? I'm trying to enjoy some quality television, here."

"But I don't think I can be totally happy just doing normal dog things. I mean, I'm happier than I was before, sure, but I still feel weird without – "

"I said be _quiet_!" Mittens said, not looking away from the TV. "Be quiet or I'll . . . I don't know." She batted listlessly at his face with a paw. "Be quiet or I'll rip you to shreds with my blunt, fleshy nubs."

Her tone was sarcastic, but her words carried a sudden bout of unintentional inspiration that stunned Bolt into momentary silence, baffled that the notion hadn't occurred to him earlier. In true narrative fashion, the moment coincided almost exactly with a triumphant musical cue from the television.

TV-Bolt was doing something heroic, again, but Bolt on the sofa wasn't really paying attention any more. He spent several anxious minutes mulling over his idea, making sure everything worked out the way he felt it should in his head. He knew it would work, though; already the tiny spot of emptiness he'd been feeling before was starting to drift away.

He made up his mind, and shuffled decisively across the couch, bumping up against the cat sitting next to him.

"What are you _doing_, Bolt?" Mittens asked in confusion, looking over at him.

Bolt looked back cheerfully. "I decided what I can do," he said. "I'm going to be your claws!"

"_What_?"

"It makes sense, doesn't it?" Bolt didn't look like he was going to be dropping his newfound grin anytime soon.

"I'm a housecat, Bolt," Mittens protested. "I don't need protecting." She did not, however, try to move away from him.

"You need claws, though. Even if you are just a housecat, that's still a part of your body you don't feel right without. Even I can tell that."

Mittens opened her mouth to argue, but couldn't seem to think of anything to say. For a split second, her expression betrayed what she was thinking, and Bolt was surprised with himself that he'd noticed it.

"Please, Mittens," Bolt implored. "For me, at least, but I think it would help you too. I mean, I know I'm not the exact same thing as real claws, but I'll do my best."

Mittens looked away, mainly because she suddenly couldn't trust her face to hide her thoughts anymore.

"Alright," she said eventually. "Trial run only, though, got it?" Her tone was serious, but it was obvious that she'd made up her mind already. "Tomorrow we'll see how you do tearing up the sofa, and work our way up from there."

Bolt nodded happily, and settled back down, already feeling far more complete than he had when he'd woken up. And despite the loud heroics blasting from the TV in front of him, the summer sun and his morning fatigues combined got the better of him.

Curled up next to Mittens, Bolt drifted back to sleep, doing his very best to think sharp thoughts.


End file.
